


sea salt, flowers, and fire

by voidveils



Series: hetalia  WWII collection [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Human names are used, I try, M/M, Oneshot, Pearl Harbor - Freeform, WWII AU, ameripan - Freeform, not a happy ending sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 02:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13965558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidveils/pseuds/voidveils
Summary: Wind whips the flag back and forth,   a single red circle staining the white like a drop of blood. As Kiku stands at attention, eyes locked on the banner, he knows he should feel pride, excitement—but those clear blue eyes haunt his every thought.





	sea salt, flowers, and fire

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been lurking on ao3 long enough, I think it’s time I posted something. 
> 
> I don’t own Hetalia, and I know nothing about historical or military accuracies, please excuse any mistakes. Feedback is always appreciated!

\-----

6:01, PST

Harsh clanging, the sound of metal screeching against metal, grates painfully on Kiku's ears. It's loud, too loud for comfort. Chaos swirls around him as metal boxes and ominous weapons are loaded onto aircraft, military personnel dashing about in preparation. 

Kiku stands off to the side, partially hidden in the shadows of the great hangar. He feels like he's painfully noticeable, but nobody seems to bother with him. All attention is on the fleet, and on the generals. Kiku shifts uncomfortably in his uniform, drawing farther back into the shadows, but it doesn't help with the noise. A loud screech echoes from the hangar behind him, magnified by the stone walls. A metal box is dragged out, and loaded onto the airplane closest to Kiku. 

It's the plane he'll be flying, once they depart. He's unfamiliar with this plane, it's controls and layout are completely foreign to him, but he's flown enough bombers to know he'll soon get used to it. He eyes the craft, taking in the oversized belly, menacing guns, and Japanese flag painted onto the wings and underside. 

Only a few years ago, Kiku had taken pride in serving under that flag, had marched into the Japanese military with his head high and dreams of glory and honorable sacrifice swirling through his mind- but now, all he feels is dread. Because now, fighting isn't honorable to him. When his mind wanders to the impending attack on America, all he can think about are those two innocent blue eyes gazing up at him confusedly. 

"I don't speak Japanese. What? What are you saying? I- don't- understand- Japanese-" 

And, later, when the young American had had a few drinks, those soft lips on his own and those warm fingers under his shirt...

And Kiku had seen the military uniform folded on the bed of the American, listened as he bragged in English about his enlistment in the United States Navy, his stationing in Hawaii. 

It is unwise of him, Kiku knows, to spend so much time dwelling on someone he'd met once a long time ago, someone who doesn’t even speak his language, someone who probably hates him now because of the war and his ethnicity. Even so, there is something about Alfred that Kiku can’t let go of. Maybe it’s his pure, almost childlike innocence, maybe it’s his clear good intentions, or the fire with which he had kissed Kiku behind that bar. 

He began to detest people who spoke of Americans as dirty rats, cowards and fat pigs. His American wasn't like that. His was perfect. He began to avert his eyes when people asked him about his opinion on the war, he began to dread training. Every second he spent preparing to fight the Americans was a second spent preparing to kill Alfred. 

And here he is, piloting an aircraft destined to decimate American forces, of which Alfred is among. 

"Honda!" Kiku jumps, startled from his reminiscing, and straightens immediately. 

"Sir!" he replies out of habit, but relaxes when he sees it is only a soldier. 

"Honda, you're wanted in the briefing room." 

Kiku nods, and bows politely to the soldier. "Thank you."

Hastily, he leaves the concealment of the shadows and strides across the runways to the command centre, loathe to keep his command waiting- but also to escape the chaos of the hangar. He is grateful for an excuse to leave the noise, regardless of what may come next. 

The briefing room is simple; gray walls, gray floor, gray furnishings. A large map is pinned to one wall, red lines marking paths across the Pacific Ocean, various eastern islands colored completely red, some marked yellow, some blue. A long table occupies most of the floor space, light gray in color. The whole place smells sharp and metallic, and Kiku shivers as he is reminded of blood. 

All of the other pilots are already gathered, standing around the table and watching an officer at the head. Kiku quietly takes his place, face growing hot as all the attention is turned to him. He isn't acknowledged by the officer, however, something he is grateful for. 

A moment later, the general, a tall man in his forties, begins to speak. 

"The aircraft will depart shortly. You all, along with your co-pilot, will be responsible for carrying the attack on the United States." 

Kiku winces inwardly as thoughts of Alfred in a uniform, grinning cheerfully as he basked in the bold colors of his flag, flash through his mind. He thinks of Alfred, vaporized by the bomb that he dropped, or slowly bleeding out in the ocean, waiting to drown. He thinks of blood staining his face, suffocating that innocence, that spark in his eyes, and it all his fault. 

Kiku hates this war. He really, truly, does. 

"...There is something that you must all understand,” he continues, “When we attack, we must not only destroy their navy, but their hearts. We must break their spirit and crush their resolve. We must bring this young, naive country to its knees, take them out of this war before they enter it."

"Yes, sir!" The pilots answer as one. Kiku mouths the words, but doesn't say them aloud. He has a feeling that if he does, they will burn his mouth. 

He's only known this American for a month. They've almost never talked, kissed a couple of times, fucked once. He shouldn't matter this much to Kiku, he knows. He shouldn't have made such an impact on Kiku's life that he finds  himself refusing to salute to the Japanese military. 

He's practically switched sides, and Kiku is disgusted at himself for it. He has no familial ties nor ancestral ties to the country, nothing preventing him from despising it except Alfred. In fact, Kiku realizes as he leaves the briefing room with the other pilots, he does despise America. 

It is only Alfred that he wants. Let the rest of the nation burn, just keep Alfred safe. In fact, Kiku thinks, the whole world could burn and he won’t care, as long as that happy American boy is safe. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Kiku tells himself. Alfred has probably forgotten even his name by now, he's probably disgusted at himself for ever touching a Japanese man. For whispering-

"I love you,”

to him that one night before Kiku had to leave, after only a month of each other's presence. Kiku barely knows any English, but he knows enough to understand that. 

And, now, Alfred probably hates him. In fact, Kiku himself is almost disgusted at his infatuation with an American- almost. 

His feet are leaden as he leaves the room, the weight of the flag flying high above his head crushing him into the ground. 

 

\-------

7:22, PST

The waves of the harbor are calm and peaceful, lapping gently at the posts of the wooden docks. Alfred watches them, mesmerized by the reflections scattered by the morning sun. They dance across the dark, worn wood of the docks and land on Alfred's boots. He moves his feet, feeling as if he would contaminate the beauty of the ocean with his dirty, scuffed boots, but the light patterns follow him. 

The water of the harbor is so clear Alfred can see the bottom. He tears his gaze from the reflections to examine it, taking in the sand and the colorful pebbles. They shift slightly with each gentle wave that passes. It's captivating, Alfred thinks as he watches the ocean. He'd grown up in the Great Plains, as far away from the ocean as one can get, and he can count the number of times he's seen a large body of water on one hand.

He breathes in deeply, taking in the crisp smell of the ocean- but it's tinged by the stink of oil and sweat, the stink of docks and boats. He doesn't mind, though, because it reminds him of where he is. 

In the military. Serving his country. 

Alfred grins to himself, nearly bursting with pride. He's doing something honorable with his life, something heroic. Standing tall and strong under the great American flag, in uniform and smiling proudly, it's been his dream since he was sixteen and talk of an impeding war had begun. Now, two years later, he is living it- and enjoying every second. 

Training had been brutal and expectations have been high, but it was worth it, Alfred thinks. He isn’t high in rank, nor in respect from his superiors, but the pride of serving his country is enough. 

And the women- he had never been popular with the female population, but now he is garnering a lot of attention from them. Every night spent at the bar sends him to a new home with a new girl- and he can't say he dislikes it. They are certainly pleasurable, he can’t deny that. 

Something continuously stops him from keeping them, however. A flash of something- dark eyes, quiet smile, soft voice and strange language- keeps plaguing the back of his mind, and he finds himself leaving the girl when the first hints of morning light touch his skin. 

Pointless, useless, Alfred knows, to keep thinking about the quiet Japanese man who he had known for all of a month. He is gone, and any feelings Alfred might have had for him left with his departure, he tells himself. The immense distance between them has severed the ties as efficiently as if with the slim knife he keeps tucked away in his boot. 

Alfred glances up at the sun, shining warmly down on his head. Back at home, there would be snow coating the ground, frost clinging to the trees, breath would be coming in clouds from people who were hurrying through frigid air. December came mild to him in Hawaii, however. He was comfortable in light clothing. 

Back home, his mother would be baking cookies or making tea, sitting at their old table and gazing out the frosted window. Sudden feelings of homesickness strike Alfred, and he wonders what his life would be like if he hadn't joined the navy. 

Not as good as it is now, Alfred firmly tells himself. This was the right decision, honorable and stuffed with pride. 

"Jones!" someone calls, sauntering up to Alfred, hands thrust deep in the pockets of a regulation jacket. Alfred recognizes one of his friends. 

"Heya, Keman!" He calls back, leaving thoughts of the Japanese man, American pride, and home behind him as he jogs to meet Andrew Keman. 

"We're getting tomorrow off duty!” Andrew announces. “Jackson says since there ain't much action 'round here, we can afford to take a day off, and it's cleared with the Commander! What do you say about sightseeing with me and Scott?" Smith asks, grinning. 

"Sure!" Alfred agrees. "This is great, I haven't gotten a chance to do much around here yet."

Keman laughs. "You filthy liar. I know you pig yourself on alcohol and pretty ladies every other day, Jones."

"Don't know what you mean." Alfred replies, trying to keep a straight face. He fails. 

"I'm the meantime, however, we're wanted for guard duty on the watchtower at seven-fifty, so we should probably start heading over." 

Alfred nods in agreement, jauntily tramping after his friend, away from the harbor and farther inland. He spares a glance over his shoulder at the sparkling water, and is struck by a flash of remembrance. 

Deep, dark eyes, eyes that startle Alfred each time he looks into them. So deep he's almost afraid of those eyes, as if he'll fall into them and drown. Smooth hands, pale against his tanned ones, small and thin. The faint scent of sea salt and flowers. 

Why, why can't Alfred forget that Japanese man? They'd been with each other for a month. Only a month. They don’t speak each other's language, they’ve never even had a real conversation. Now, their countries are at odds- Alfred needs to forget him. Nothing good will come of allowing Kiku Honda to haunt him. 

Alfred kicks a stone on the path, watching as it rolls into the grass. Forget about him, he tells himself. Kiku was nothing more than a pretty boy that Alfred had taken advantage of, used long ago to relive the strenuous nature of his last station- right?

And, yet...

I love you, he'd told Kiku. Under the influence of too much alcohol, tucked away into the shadows of a dark bedroom, bodies and breaths entangled, Alfred had said that he loved Kiku. He doesn’t even think he understood him. 

It doesn't matter, Alfred tells himself yet again, but he can't waft the distant smell of sea salt and flowers away from his nose. 

Alfred is thinking so much he ceases to pay attention to the path, and trips on a rock. Andrew starts laughing, and Alfred joins in at his own expense. 

He's still laughing as the sirens begin to  wail. 

He stops, frozen. Andrew does too, and Alfred watches the look of horror dawn on his friend's face. He knows his features are probably mirroring the same look. 

He feels exposed out in the open. The hairs on the back of his neck rise as one and stand to attention, like soldiers. Soldiers- that’s what Alfred is, he’s a soldier. He shouldn’t be standing frozen, there’s a threat, his country in in danger and it’s his time to defend it. Think, Jones, think! 

The distant roar of aircraft engines invades his ears, and at once he is scanning the sky, desperately searching for the threat. 

Far, far in the distance, still far out over the ocean, he can spot tiny specks of airplanes advancing on the island. 

"They- they might just be suppliers-" Keman starts, but Alfred stops him. 

"No." 

No matter how far away those planes are, nothing could have prevented his eyes from landing on those terrible Japanese flags painted on the wings. 

What a horrifying sight, he whispers to himself as the first explosion tears the ground under him to shreds. 

 

\-----

 

6:27, PST

"Prepare to depart in ten minutes! Pilots report to their aircraft!"

The announcement is barely audible over the din of the airfield, but it speaks the loudest to Kiku. He feels like a coward as he heads to his airplane, standing at attention by the left wing and waiting for inspection, he feels like he's marching to Alfred's death and he's too weak to stop it. 

"I'm going to be stationed in Hawaii. Ha-wai-i- do you know where that is? Do you even understand what I'm saying? Here, lemme find a map... This one! I'll be on one of the bi-i-ig boats here!" 

Kiku can already feel the bright red lever clutched in his hand, the torpedoes falling from the belly of his bomber, the explosions rocking the aircraft as he will speed away. 

Millions of innocents, millions that he will murder today. And, among them, could be Alfred.

It's no worse than anyone else, Kiku tells himself. War turns men into monsters, and he knows he isn't alone. People kill, people are killed, and that is the way it will always be. If they end up dragging the United States into the war, there is no doubt in Kiku's mind that Alfred will also become a monster, that he will kill and he will destroy just like him. He knows that if Alfred were in the position that he‘s in, he wouldn't hesitate to attack. Kiku knows he means nothing to the American. 

"Clear!" an inspector has moved on from the previous aircraft and is approaching Kiku's. 

The reconnaissance flights from Chikuma and Tone have left and returned, and the final inspections before Kiku's fleet departs from the aircraft carrier are taking place. Kiku tenses, trying not to think about the looming attack. 

The inspector unlatches and opens the belly, inspecting the explosives. Kiku averts his eyes, refusing to look at the small silver missiles. When he had joined the military, years ago, he hadn't really thought about this, about what it would really be like to directly take human life- American or not. It rocks him to his core. 

"Clear!" The inspector calls. "That's the last one!" 

Another announcement comes on. "Pilots and co-pilots of the first wave, prepare to depart. The signal will be given shortly." 

Kiku climbs into the cockpit as if in a trance, and straps himself in. His co-pilot, a tall man of twenty-five, takes his place next to him. 

Kiku is to take part in the first wave of attackers, designed to target American air fleets and naval ships. His orders are to target as many critical military vessels as possible, and return to the aircraft carrier when fuel runs low. Once refueled, he is to return to the fight, where the Americans would surely be retaliating. It’s a flawlessly cruel and efficient plan, one that Kiku can’t help but to admire with a sense of horror. 

Kiku runs his hands across the control board, familiarizing himself with the aircraft. He takes a deep breath, and uses all of his mental strength to shove all thoughts of Alfred to the back of his mind. In fact, Kiku goes a step further and bars any thoughts of guilt. His orders are his orders, and he will fight for Japan, regardless of his opinion on the war.

"Prepare for departure in two minutes." 

Kiku realizes that the din of the aircraft carrier's hangar has quieted down, and he finds himself almost wishing for it back. The silence grates on his ears just as harshly as the noise. 

Kiku's eyes land on the red levers to the right. He shivers internally, refusing to show any physical sign of weakness. It's war now, he tells himself. Every single person involved will become a despicable evil, on his side as well as on the Americans’. It is how it is, and Kiku must accept it. 

"Ready?" His co-pilot asks grimly, strapping himself in. 

"Yes." Kiku answers shortly. "You?" 

"As I'll ever be." 

Kiku knows that once the attack begins and the inevitable counterattack arises, he and his co-pilot will hold each other's lives in their hands. There is an unspoken trust between the two, an understanding of what is at stake and what they must do to ensure success and survival. 

They both understand what will happen out there above the Pacific Ocean. 

It's something Kiku is grateful for, to have co-pilot that is as mature as he is, that knows as much as he is, and is willing to do what he is. They will make a good team, Kiku thinks. They don't need to talk much to understand each other.

People in florescent yellow vests dash into view, waving sticks to direct the aircraft. 

"First wave, take flight." 

It was beginning. 

Kiku starts the engines, feeling the familiar vibration of an airplane. He slides the visor down on his helmet, wraps both gloved hands around the stick controls, and waits for his turn to take flight. 

The ocean is bright blue in the early morning sun, the reflections cast distractingly into Kiku's eyes as he flies. He averts his eyes, focusing instead on the horizon. The aircraft carriers that the planes had taken off from have sailed to the Kurile Islands, and from there it is a direct flight northwest to Hawaii. The flight won’t take long, though the islands are not yet visible in the distance. 

In the silence above the ocean, Kiku feels the first drops of fear beginning to trickle into his heart. Not only for Alfred- although he is certainly afraid for him- but for himself, too. It's a basic primeval instinct to survive, and Kiku can't help but fear that he won't make it out. 

It is part of the deal in joining the military, that he be prepared to die for his country, and Kiku knows he would. He has no doubt that he is willing to sacrifice himself for Japan, but he can’t stop the dread. He doesn’t want to die. Then again, he has spent a majority of his life doing things he didn't want to, and so he supposes it is nothing out of the ordinary. 

His thoughts drift again to Alfred. In the year or so since he'd left America to return to Japan, he's managed to bury thoughts of the American boy deep in the dark recesses of his mind- but with the attack, recently he's been thinking about him more and more. And now, mere minutes away from what could be the death of his maybe-once-lover, those thoughts can’t be kept at bay for long. 

His fingers tighten on the controls. 

On the distant horizon, the fuzzy shapes of the Hawaiian islands begin to take form. 

7:40, PST

The radio crackles, and the fuzzy voice of the wave commander comes on. He speaks in code, in case the Americans' scanners can pick up on their radios, telling them of the attack plans. 

They remain undetected until almost upon the islands, and by the time they are discovered Kiku knows it‘s too late. He doesn’t know if he is excited or dismayed by it. They will undoubtedly cause many casualties to the Americans, something Kiku isn't happy about- human life is humans life, regardless of race. But he supposes it is them or us, and in the end he would rather kill Americans than hurt the Japanese. 

He feels sick even thinking that way, practically celebrating the murder of people. The possible murder of Alfred. 

The island grows until it dominates the landscape, until it is all Kiku can see. 

"Attack." Comes the simple, short order. 

And all hell breaks loose. 

 

\-----

 

7:43, PST

Smoke clouds Alfred's vision, rolling over him in waves and burning his lungs. He drops to the ground, covering his neck with his hands and closing his eyes as tightly as he can. Spots of white-hot fire burn on his bare arms. He grits his teeth in pain. 

The Japanese are attacking. The Japanese are attacking America, and Alfred is about to die. He can't see anything, he doesn't know where his friend is, he's not even positive he knows which way is up. All he knows is that he's about to die, and he's struck with an overwhelming frustration. 

Alfred has always dreamed of dying an honorable death, falling in battle like a true soldier, not helpless on the ground as he is attacked. Hell, Alfred doesn't even know what's happening. He's about to die without even knowing why. 

They'll retaliate, Alfred knows. The United States will fight back and then the war will invade his land, and he's enraged that he won't be a part of it. He wants to fight, he wants to kill, he wants revenge for this attack, but he'll never get it. Fuck it all, he thinks, pouring all the hate he can into the words. 

And then those deep, dark eyes invade his thoughts, and he curses them. He hates those eyes, those eyes that belong to a man of the race of people that will be responsible for his death. 

"Fuck!" He yells, smoke searing his tongue, but nobody hears him. He isn't positive he can even hear himself. 

The ground shakes with explosions. Smoke billows around him. 

He loses consciousness for a second, and when he opens his eyes again there is blood dripping into them. The dust has cleared somewhat, and so perhaps it has been longer than a second. He can make out the indistinct shapes of soldiers, but none of them bother with him. Alfred stumbles to his feet for the first time, hissing as his head flares in pain. He gingerly feels it with a hand, and when he pulls it away his fingers are drenched in blood. 

He doesn't know which way is which, but he supposes it doesn't matter, because there is a slim chance he'll make it out alive anyway, and so he chooses the left and begins to walk. 

He stumbles over something, and upon peering closer, he finds his answer to the question of Keman’s whereabouts. 

Falling debris have crushed his skull, and the one eye he still has intact is stretched wide in a mask of fear and shock, his last emotion etched permanently upon his still face. 

It seems unreal, like it isn't happening. Alfred feels like he's someone else, watching the events unfold from somewhere else. He keeps walking, past what once was Andrew Keman, and his feet sting. He realizes then that he is missing his boots, his are feet are catching on sharp rocks. He doesn't stop. 

He just keeps walking, keeps walking, until his feet hit water. He stops. Alfred hasn’t noticed that he has approached the ocean. The water now is murky and dark, littered with debris- from what? A ship?- and, to Alfred's horror, blood. 

Another explosion shakes the earth. Distant shouts are muffled by the clouds of smoke. 

Suddenly, a new noise takes the foreground of Alfred's mind. A loud whistling and the horrible grating of a failing engine- 

And his eyes catch the sight of an aircraft plummeting out of the sky, slamming into the ground a hundred paces from where he stands, igniting in a tall pillar of flame. Alfred is mesmerized by the flame, illuminating the smoke and crackling loud enough to be heard by Alfred. The faint, chipped image of the Japanese flag shines for a moment on the wing, and then it, too, is consumed. 

"We're at war." he whispers quietly to himself, disbelievingly. "And I'll never get to fight in it." 

He'll fade away, another nameless tally to the death toll, to be forgotten. He doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t accept it. Sure, people die in attacks, but not him. He’s supposed to die fighting, to go down in history as a hero- not like this. 

Anger and disbelief burn inside Alfred, and he harshly wipes away the blood that has begun to trickle down his face again. Struck by a sudden idea, he approaches the burning aircraft. There has to be a gun, or something, in it. 

He's going to shoot those fucking planes out of the sky, Alfred swears. He’s going to watch them all fall. 

The wreckage is burning fiercely, flames reaching up high into the smoky air. Alfred stumbles across one of the pilots about ten paces from the aircraft. His head is burnt so badly, he doesn't know which side he's looking at. The side of the aircraft Alfred approaches is burning too much to investigate, so he circles the plane to keep looking. 

He does find a gun, a long rifle with metal plating and a few characters engraved into the stock. Crouching down, Alfred lifts it off the ground, feeling contaminated for touching something that had once belonged to a Japanese. His fingers slid across the Japanese writing carved into the wood, and he vaguely wonders what it says. 

He stands, and is about to leave, when something a few feet away catches his eye. Well, perhaps that isn't the right expression. More like, it forcefully takes a hold of his attention and drags his eyes to it. 

Alfred stops. He feels his eyes widen in shock, and the rifle slips between his fingers and clatters to the ground, but the sound is lost in another explosion that shakes the ground and sends him crashing to his knees. 

"Kiku?"

 

\-----

 

8:09, PST

Kiku's fingers grasp the red lever, sweat running them slick inside his gloves. The lever, though cold, burns through his fingers like acid. 

He's pulled it once already, and now he knows he must pull it again. He hesitates, however, tightening his grip. How many people have died because of him today? How many more will? 

Next to him, his co-pilot has control of the navigation equipment. "Target approaching." He announces, but it's unnecessary. Kiku can see the ship. It's big, but not any more so than any of their own. For a moment, Kiku sees one of the Japanese naval fleet ships in its place, and then it's gone, to be replaced with Alfred's face. 

He's not sure which is worse. 

"Now! Fire!"

Of their own accord, Kiku's hands yank the lever down, and then they fly to the steering controls, and he darts away as quickly as the aircraft can manage. Even so, the resulting explosion rocks the airplane, and Kiku lurches violently in his restraints. 

"Clear." The co-pilot says. "Next target approaching in thirty seconds. Give us a little less height, Honda, would you?" 

Kiku nods in reply, although he doubts his co-pilot is watching him. He eases them down a little more, and the ground comes into focus. Kiku winces at the fire and destruction. Alfred's body could be in that, his mind whispers. 

Suddenly, something in the corner of his vision appears to the right of the airplane that makes Kiku's blood run cold. 

The Americans have launched their own air fleet. 

Left! Left! Go up! Into the smoke, get in the smoke!"

Kiku obeys, slamming the controls and handling the plane more roughly than he probably should. Something clangs into the side of the airplane- bullets. These aircraft have guns mounted on them. Kiku has rifles in the cockpit, but the bomber itself is not meant for in-air combat. Another bullet hits, and then another. Kiku prays fervently that the sides of his plane are strong enough to resist them. 

He urges the craft higher and higher, hoping to escape into the thick of the smoke, and, if they go down, give them more time to jump. The American plane follows, still shooting at them. 

Kiku abandons all traces of hesitation and reluctance, and allows the primeval desire of survival to take over. He isn't a pilot for nothing, he reminds himself. Kiku is a pilot because he can fly. 

His fingers dance over the controls, swerving the plane left and right in an attempt to lose his pursuers. The co-pilot loads one of the rifles and opens a small hatch in the side of the plane, adding the howl of wind to the noise of the battle. He begins shooting behind them, but Kiku doubts he is hitting anything. 

Suddenly, not even knowing what he is doing himself, Kiku slams his hands down on a lever, sending the plane into a steep nosedive. The best way of surprising the enemy is surprising yourself, too, Kiku's father had told him once. He pulls the plane out of the dive and careens them left, all the while convincing himself he was going to head right. 

It seems to work, as they lose sight of the American airplane. Kiku pauses, righting the plane and inching forward at a snail's pace, listening and watching, but it looks as if the American plane has stopped the chase. 

He breathes a sigh of relief, and is checking the fuel gauge, when it happens. 

The airplane lurches forward, and with a loud screech and a louder snap, the engines stall, start again, and then stop. 

They hang in the air for a second that feels like an eternity, just long enough for Kiku to lock eyes with his co-pilot and exchange a look of pure terror, and then they are plummeting.

Kiku desperately tries to right the plane, to start the engines again, but nothing works. 

"It's useless!" his companion cries. "Get out! Jump, when it's close to the ground!"

He's already undoing his restrains. Kiku quickly follows his example, fumbling with the buckles. The force of their fall puts pressure on his face, and he feels himself pushing back into the chair. His co-pilot opens the top hatch, frantically beckoning Kiku to join him. Kiku struggles out of his seat and climbs up next to him. The wind tears at his face. 

"When we get close, jump!" He calls over the sound of the wind. Kiku can barely see the ground, the smoke is so think, but when he does catch a glimpse, he gasps in shock. It's approaching faster than he expected. 

"Now!" He yells, and leaps as far out from the plane as he can. Kiku squeezes his eyes as tightly as he can, and jumps. 

\--

When Kiku comes to, everything is hazy and dim. Fire looms over him, and blood surrounds him. His leg is numb, his chest on fire, and three of his fingers are twisted in ways they shouldn't be. His vision is blurring. 

Suddenly, Kiku realizes with horror that the reason his chest is on fire is that he can't breathe. He struggles to inhale, but there's something blocking him. 

Emerging from the shadows, Kiku sees a figure. His co-pilot? No, it was too tall for that. 

Help! he wants to cry, I can't breathe- but he can't speak. The world becomes fuzzy around the edges, and Kiku grows desperate. 

The figure stops, picks something up, and Kiku wants to scream. Help me, help me, I can't breathe, I'm on fire !

Then, suddenly, Kiku finds that he doesn't need to breathe. He's not inhaling or exhaling, but there's no pain. The world grows dim, dark, as it starts to fade, but Kiku is no longer afraid. His hand ceases to burn, his chest is now neutral. His eyes are dimming, however, and it seems to be the only thing wrong with him. 

Even the fire is gone, now he feels simply pleasantly warm. He could be laying in the grass outside his father’s house next to the lake again, a cup of cold tea held loosely in his hand. He can almost feel the gentle breeze ruffle his hair. 

Dimly, Kiku realizes that he is dying, but he can't bring himself to care. As long as the pain is gone, he supposes, he really doesn't mind. 

In his thoughts, a bird soars across the sky. Upon peering closer, though, Kiku finds it to be a bald eagle, and clear blue eyes cloud his mind again. 

"Kiku?" Kiku hears faintly. He knows that voice. His sight is fading, he can feel himself slipping away, but something about that voice pulls him in. 

He focuses on the approaching figure, and then suddenly the face registers in his mind- but there's something wrong. It's the same face that has haunted his dreams for a year, but it is dirty and bloodstained. The same voice that used to chirp happily in English, call his name in a way that was completely unholy, but it was raspy and sad. 

His eyes, however, Kiku thinks is the worst part. They are no longer innocent and full of life. Alfred's eyes are dull, blank, and hollow. They no longer carry the spirit that Kiku had once, a long time ago, fallen in love with. 

That was it. There is no longer anything in this world Kiku wants to stay for. The American he once loved is dead, and he has no use for a shell like this. 

He closes his eyes, and as he allows the world to fade, his last sight is of the fire rising up, up, up, obscuring the dull blue of Alfred’s eyes.


End file.
